Life with the Holmes-Watson Family
by themadmuggle12
Summary: Some small Parenlock drabbles that jump through various times in Sherlock and John's lives together.
1. Chapter 1

"Come on then." John said gently, reaching down to take Simon's mittened hand in his own. He guided the young boy up the steps, gripping his hand tightly. Simon was at the age now where he wanted to do everything himself, but John still wasn't sure that he felt completely comfortable with it. He knew that if he refused his son's need for independence, Simon would scream and cry with such anger and stubbornness that he eventually got what he wanted (usually because Sherlock couldn't stand the noise). So, John had come up with the happy medium, which suited both of them.

Unfortunately, Simon's little legs were so short and small that it took them a painstakingly long time to reach 221B. John noted to himself that the hallway still carried a faint smell of cigarettes, even though Sherlock had claimed to have quit smoking years before he had met him. But John had rising suspicions that he smoked the occasional cigarette in this hallway outside their flat. As he came closer to the door, John could make out the solemn tones of Sherlock on his violin. Despite having lived with it for many years, John still hadn't grown accustomed to the instrument, and at times he still found it extremely frustrating and distracting.

When they reached the door to the flat, John allowed Simon to turn the knob and open the door himself, much to his delight.

Sherlock was standing by the tall window in his familiar blue dressing gown, playing a slow, dramatic tune on his violin. Behind him, snow whipped past the window, gathering on the ledge and the streets of London below them.

"Hello." John greeted him cheerfully and knelt beside Simon. He pulled off the boy's hat and ruffled his messy blonde hair, shaking off any of the snowflakes still clinging to the ends. He unzipped Simon's coat, but was angrily shooed away.

"I do it!" Simon pulled away and angrily stuck out his bottom lip.

"Okay, okay." John laughed, backing away with his hands held up in surrender. He took off his own coat, hung it up and removed his soggy boots. Simon struggled a little, but refused his help, so John headed to the kitchen and put on the kettle.

"Sherlock." He called absentmindedly over his shoulder. "I don't think you should smoke in the hallway. It really stinks."

John poured himself a glass of cold water and drank it in one gulp. There was no response from Sherlock, only more angry violin. John shrugged.

"Tea?" He asked. Again, no response. Simon came traipsing into the kitchen, a huge grin across his face.

"Hey! Great job!" John praised him enthusiastically. Even though Simon was far too old and frankly a little too heavy as well, John picked him up and gave him a big hug. Sherlock always chastised him when he did that, insisting that he spoiled the boy too much. But since he wasn't watching, John figured he could do whatever he pleased. "You forgot your scarf though." He gently unwound the red scarf from Simon's neck and tossed it on the back on a chair. He pressed a kiss on the side of his son's fat little cheek.

"Beatrice told me to fuck off today." Sherlock said, pausing his violin and then continuing after he finished speaking.

"Er...what?" John asked, even though he had heard perfectly well what Sherlock had said.

"She told me to-"

"Right." John interjected, placing Simon back down. "Not in front of Simon, please." Sherlock was looking out the window and didn't answer. "Um. I'll have a talk with her, all right?"

"Fine." Sherlock answered bluntly.

"Will you make some hot cocoa for Simon? I promised him some."

Sherlock stopped playing and turned to look at him.

"I'm working John. Can't you send him down to Mrs. Hudson?" He answered in a bored tone. John bit his tongue, holding back on a rude retort. Instead, he was impressed at how patient his voice sounded.

"Mrs. Hudson's not here, Sherlock. She went to visit her brother in the country this week. She left three days ago."

Sherlock creased his eyebrows as if trying to remember.

"Ah." He answered, although it was clear that he really didn't recall it. Simon zoomed around the small living room holding his toy zebra above his head.

"Hot cocoa. Hot cocoa. Hot cocoa!" He chanted.

"Sherlock will make it for you." John said. Sherlock shot him an exasperated look, but John merely raised his eyebrows.

"You'll manage." He said.

* * *

John knocked on Beatrice's door. He tested the knob, but it was locked.

"Go away!" A muffled voice answered from inside. John sighed.

"Bea, its me... can you open the door please?"

"If you want to have one of your stupid talks about_ feelings_," She paused, emphasizing the word with a tone of disgust. "then I'm not interested."

"Bea, please, let me in. I just want to talk." John stood outside helplessly, waiting. He was instantly regretting permitting his teenage daughter a lock on her bedroom door. He was about to give up and turn away when he heard the faint pop of the door unlocking. He turned the knob very slowly and pushed open the door.

Bea was sitting in the centre of her unmade bed, legs crossed underneath her. John did a quick scan of her face. Her makeup wasn't smudged and there were no tear stains on her face, which mean't she hadn't been crying (_thank god_, he thought). But from the expression on her face, he could tell Bea was pretty angry.

Without waiting for an invitation, John sat down across from her on the bed.

"Ok." He sighed. "What happened?"

"I hate him." She answered, her voice dripping with distain.

"Jesus, Beatrice, don't say that. He's your father." Obviously that wasn't the right thing to say because a little spark ignited in the back of her eye and her jaw clenched. John feared for a minute that he had lost her trust.

"He's not my father." She spat angrily. "He is nothing to me. We aren't even related. What gives him the right to tell me what to do?" John opened his mouth to mention something about law or custody, but he closed it again when he realized that this probably wasn't the correct time. He tried a different approach.

"I know he can be frustrating sometimes, but-"

"I don't know what you see in him, Dad." Beatrice cut him off. "He's so selfish."

"He's not selfish." John jumped to Sherlock's defense automatically. "He's just...well, he's Sherlock I suppose." Beatrice rolled her eyes.

"Exactly." She mumbled.

"So tell me what he did now." John said. Beatrice groaned and launched into her story.

"Well, I was just in here, you know, minding my own business and I was listening to my music and he was playing his fucking-"

"Language." John scolded her. Beatrice rolled her eyes and continued her sentence.

"-violin, and it was so loud and it sounded terrible. So he comes in here and yells at me to turn off the music because he's 'working'. I mean, my music wasn't even that loud, I was just trying to drown out the sound of that awful violin." She crossed her arms and shot John a look like how could he not think this was totally ridiculous. Frankly, John thought the whole thing was stupid, but he didn't dare say it. Instead, he just nodded and tried to look sympathetic. He had always been close with Bea, even though the two of them were so different. Beatrice and Sherlock had never gotten along. She was nothing like her older brother Hamish, and Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to deal with her. Not that he had had any idea what to do with Hamish either. But Hamish was at least the type who could be left to his own devices, whereas Beatrice had needed constant stimulation as a child. She was loud, opinionated and stubborn. John would never admit it to them, but there were actually a lot of similarities between Sherlock and Beatrice. That was probably why they could never understand each other. But by far the biggest irritation for Sherlock was Bea's schooling. For her whole life, Beatrice had had troubles in school. She had only scraped by with passing grades. At first, John had maintained that it was just her class, or maybe her teacher. But when she was switched from school to school, it became apparent that it was just Bea. Sherlock was not impressed. When she was five years old, he had suggested to John that they return her to social services because she was "stupid". John didn't talk to him for an entire week after that, and made him sleep on the couch for almost a month. Since Beatrice had gotten older, the problems had just escalated, until it came to a point where the two of them got into daily arguments, and John found it almost impossible being in the same room as them.

John cleared his throat.

"Well Bea, I think what you said to him really hurt him. I think it really hurt his feelings." He said tentatively. Bea laughed.

"What feelings?" She smirked.

"He does have them, you know." John snapped. Then he felt a little guilty and he sighed. "Look, I know it sometimes seems like he doesn't care. Sometimes its hard to even remember that he's human. But he really does love you and it hurts him when you say those things to him." John smiled shyly at her.

"Good." Beatrice twisted a strand of hair around her finger. John bit his lip. His daughter was far too stubborn and opinionated to reason with, he realized. He decided on another approach.

"Can you at least try to get along with him? For me? Just try not to fight so much, ok?" John tried to sound hopefully. Beatrice shrugged.

"Fine. I guess I can try." She said. "But only if he does too." John beamed.

"Good girl." He kissed her cheek.

"Urrgh, Dad! She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. John laughed and made his way to the door.

"I love you." He reminded her as he grabbed the doorknob.

"Love you too Dad." Beatrice replied.

* * *

After John put Simon to bed that evening, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, intently studying something under his microscope. John came up behind him and placed his hands on Sherlock's bony shoulders.

"Come on. Let's go to bed." He said gently, massaging his fingers across the tense spots in Sherlock's shoulders.

"You go." Sherlock answered in a monotone. "I'm going to finish this."

John moved his fingers down Sherlock's pointy spine, pressing down.

"I want you to come with me." John said. Sherlock sighed loudly. John kissed the back of his neck.

"Please?" He whispered. Very slowly, Sherlock detached himself from the microscope and turned around to look John straight in the eye.

"Whats wrong?" He demanded. John smiled sadly.

"I miss you." He said simply. "And I want to talk." He stared into Sherlock's dark glassy eyes. Sherlock's long, thin fingers reached out and took his hand.

"Come on then." He said.

* * *

In their bedroom, John stripped down to his underwear and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold, and he shivered as he slipped under them. Sherlock followed and took John's hand, playing with the tips of his fingers. John watched him, his head propped up on his other hand.

"Sherlock?" He asked.

"Yes John?" Replied Sherlock, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand.

"I spoke with Bea today."

Sherlock was now tracing circles on the inside of John's hand.

"Yes." He said. John gulped. He wasn't really sure how to go about this.

"Can you do something for me Sherlock?" He asked. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little but then nodded slowly. "Can you try to be a little nicer to Beatrice?"

Sherlock groaned.

"John, she's an absolute nightmare. She has no respect for my work and she treats me like scum." He frowned.

"I know." John tried his best to sound understanding and sympathetic. "But can you at least try to understand her?"

"Well, she doesn't exactly-"

"I've asked her to try." Interjected John. "But it will only work if you do too." Sherlock sighed, defeated.

"Fine. If that's what makes you happy John." He rolled onto his back. John grinned and leaned over Sherlock, his body hovering above him.

"Did I ever tell you how much I love you?" He pressed his nose against Sherlock's.

"Frequently." Sherlock smirked. John kissed him, crushing his lips against the other man's. He sampled Sherlock's familiar taste of peppermint toothpaste, stale cigarettes and the faint sweetness that he could never understand. Sherlock's hands clamped to his waist. John pulled Sherlock's lip with his teeth, emitting a deep moan from him and sending John's head spinning. Their lips pulled away for a moment and Sherlock moved down to John's neck. John tilted his head to allow for easier access and he whimpered as he was nibbled and licked.

"John." Sherlock moaned into his skin. John groaned, his heart pounding. He loved it when Sherlock said his name like that-with such longing. He slid his hands down Sherlock's torso, thumb grazing his ribs, and resting his hands on his low hip bones. Sherlock made a low, deep noise in the back of his throat and ground his hips against John.

"Jesus." John muttered, moving his hands down to cup Sherlock's crotch. He was greeted by another satisfied groan and a nibble on his ear.

"Dad!" There was a call from the other room. John froze.

"Fuck." He cursed, rolling off Sherlock. He pulled the covers back, ready to stand. But Sherlock was already up, pulling his blue dressing gown over his more-than-half-naked body.

"I'll go." He said, tying the sash around his waist.

"Uh...ok." John answered. Sherlock strode out of the room in a few quick steps. John sighed, letting his body fall back onto the soft bed. He pulled the duvet over his body and nuzzled his head into Sherlock's fluffy white pillow. As he closed his eyes, John realized that it all wasn't really that bad. Everything was going to be ok.


	2. Chapter 2

On Saturday, John took Hamish to the park. It was a sunny, blisteringly hot day, and Sherlock was completely absorbed in his new, exciting case. He had hardly lifted his eye from the microscope when John had announced to him that he was going out. He had merely grunted, with one eye still pressed against the lens.

Hamish, on the other end, was absolutely ecstatic about going to the park with John. He was practically skipping beside him, gripping his hand tightly for the entire walk. He talked non-stop, narrating for his father. John could hardly understand what he was saying, as it was mostly a constant stream of mumbles and observations. John merely smiled to himself and inserted a few sounds of agreement when Hamish came to a short gap, catching his breath before launching into another dialogue. Often, John wondered what Sherlock had been like as a child. He had come to the conclusion that this habit Hamish had developed was probably a trait from Sherlock, only he was almost positive that Sherlock's mini-monologues would have been much longer, and a lot more one-sided. Nevertheless, he enjoyed listening to Hamish, even if he could hardly understand what was going on in his funny little head.

The park was only a short distance from their flat, and John had found himself to be spending more and more time there, since Hamish had begun to grow restless watching his father mope around the flat for the last few days. John had found a lot of enjoyment in this park, as well as Hamish. There was a perfect little bench in the shade, where he liked to sit while Hamish played on the swing set. It was peaceful and always unoccupied.

This particular afternoon, when they arrived at the park, Hamish ran straight to the swings, as usual. He could never get enough of the swing set. Once, when John had asked him why he loved them so much, his son had replied that they made him feel like he was flying.

As usual, John went straight to his bench, which was, unsurprisingly, unoccupied. He sat and watched Hamish for a while, smiling while the boy pushed himself to fly higher and higher into the air, his brown curls flopping against the wind. John reached for his bag and dug out his book from the bottom. He had been so busy lately, that he had hardly had any time to read. Usually, John liked to spend a part of his day with a book because it helped him relax and unwind in the evening. Lately, however, he had been trying to divide his time between working at the clinic, racing off to various crime scenes with Sherlock, and bringing Hamish to and from school. Life had been growing increasingly chaotic for John, and although he loved his new lifestyle, he still wasn't quite used to all the changes. One of the biggest being his lack of free time.

About ten minutes into reading, John heard someone approach him. Startled, he looked up, and squinted against the sun into a woman's face, who looked down at him.

"Oh!" She said, clearly a little embarrassed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize that you were sitting over here." She was holding the hand of a little girl, who looked to be about six years old. She peered up at John with curiosity. John smiled back at her.

"That's alright." He replied kindly.

"Yeah, sorry to disturb you. I just thought that this would be a nice place to sit while Charlotte played in the park." The little girl (presumably Charlotte) pulled on her mother's hand impatiently.

"You can sit here if you'd like." John answered, moving his bag to the ground beside his feet to clear some space for her. "I don't need the whole bench."

"Are you sure?" The woman was questioning him, but it was very clear to John that there was something pulling her to his bench.

"Yeah, yeah, of course."

"Thanks." She replied, dumping her large red purse on the bench, and sitting down beside him. "It's just way to hot for me to sit in the sun." John nodded. She turned to Charlotte.

"Go on and play then, I'll just be over here." She crossed her bare legs and leaned back against the bench.

"See that little boy over there?" John addressed Charlotte, pointing at Hamish. "That's my son. You can go say hi. I'm sure he'd like to play with you."

"Ok." Charlotte grinned. She skipped over to Hamish. John watched from afar as she introduced herself. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he saw Hamish shake her hand as he introduced himself, which seemed to confuse Charlotte. In a matter of seconds, Hamish was pushing Charlotte on the swing.

"She's a little pushy." The woman beside him commented. "I'm sure she just told your son exactly what to do." John laughed.

"She's definitely not shy." He answered.

"No. Definitely not." She agreed, with a chuckle. "I'm Emily, by the way." She added quickly.

"John."

"Nice to meet you." She smiled at John. In his mind, John registered that Emily was actually very pretty. She was the kind of pretty that he would have gone for about five or six years ago, before... all of this. Her blonde hair seemed to glow with the sunlight hitting it from behind, she had a slender, petite form and glowing green eyes. When she smiled at John, the edges of her eyes wrinkled in a way that was charming, and very pleasant. Her gaze lingered on him, and John broke their eye contact, embarrassed.

"So... how old is Charlotte?" He awkwardly grasped for a topic of interest.

"She's six." Emily answered. "And your son?"

"Hamish is five." John replied.

"Hamish." She repeated. "That's...a unique name." John groaned internally. Nobody failed to comment on Hamish's name. Sherlock had insisted on the name, as a homage to John on a day that he was feeling particularly sentimental. John had always hated his middle name, but his attempts to discourage Sherlock had been ineffective. Hamish had only started school about a year ago, and he was already being teased.

"Yeah." John said, not really knowing what else to say.

"So what do you do, John?" Emily questioned him in a peculiar way, her voice carrying up to a higher range at the end of a sentence. It struck John suddenly that she was flirting with him. Here he was, at the park with his son, and he was being hit on by a complete stranger. It had been a while since this type of thing had happened to him. Sherlock's way of flirting was far less subtle and much more...forward. He wondered if she could see the wedding ring on his finger, or if she was just too oblivious to even look for it.

Realizing that he hadn't responded to Emily's question yet, John felt like an idiot.

"I, uh... I'm a-" John froze. _I'm a...what? I'm the assistant to a consulting detective and the adoptive father of his child._ _My husband and I solve crimes and then make passionate love to each other._ What did he _do?_ "I'm a doctor." He answered shortly. _There. That was the truth, he was just leaving a lot out._

"Oh. Wow, that's impressive. What type of work do you do?"

"I was an army doctor, but I got injured in combat. Now I'm working at the family clinic across from St. Bart's hospital."

"Ah, I know which one you're talking about. Sounds like you've had quite the life, Doctor. I bet you have some interesting stories to tell."

John just chuckled and nodded. _You have no idea,_ he thought.

"What about yourself?" He asked. Emily shrugged.

"Nothing nearly as impressive as you, I'm afraid. I've been wandering around a bit, trying to find some sort of profession that suits me. It's just me and Charlotte in our house, so I have a lot of financial responsibility, you know? My latest interest is hair styling. Right now I'm just working at a cheap little place in a mall, but I'm hoping to upgrade soon." John nodded. "What about yourself?" She seemed to suddenly become more interested. "Are you with anyone?"

"Yeah." John replied. "I'm married."

"Oh." Emily smiled and nodded her head, although John could tell she was a bit put out. "And what does your wife do?"

"My husband, actually, is a detective." Emily's eyes widened, and John couldn't help the grin spreading across his face. He couldn't wait to tell Sherlock about this.

"Oh." Emily said again, clearly at a momentary loss for words.

"Yeah."

Emily recovered from her shock quickly, and managed to hide the expression on her face.

"A detective?" She asked with interest, although considerably less than she had expressed when questioning John earlier. "I thought they only existed in films and mystery novels."

"So did I..." John laughed. "Until I met him." Emily awkwardly joined in with his laughter.

"So, how long have you-" Emily never got to finish her question to John because she was interrupted by a sharp, loud cry. John recognized the voice immediately as Hamish and he stood up in one quick motion. His son was lying facedown in the dirt, directly underneath a still-moving swing. _He must have fallen off while you weren't watching him._ As he grabbed his bag and sprinted over, he cursed to himself. _Stupid John, _he thought, _stupid stupid stupid. You were just talking to Emily and you forgot to watch him. Sherlock is going to kill you._

"Hamish!" He knelt beside his son. Hamish turned onto his side, and tried to sit up. There were tears running down his cheeks, but John could tell he was trying to hold back.

"I'm okay Papa." He said quietly, with a sniff. John lifted his son up from the dirt. He had two large bloody knees, and his elbows and forearms were badly scraped. John ran a hand through his hair, feeling his scalp.

"No, no you're not okay. Did you hit your head? What happened?" John registered that he was probably overreacting, but he suddenly could understand all the over-protective, dramatic parents who brought their children into his clinic.

Hamish shook his head, but now that he could see the blood coming from himself, he started to cry. He tried to touch his knee, but John pulled his hand away.

"Come on then. Let's go home." He lifted his son up into his arms. Hamish was far too old to be carried, but he just wrapped his arms around John's neck, and buried his head into the front of his shirt. John put a hand on Hamish's back to support him. _Jesus_, thought John, _he's pretty heavy_.

He turned to Emily and Charlotte. Charlotte looked a little teary from the shock of the whole ordeal, but she just stared up at John in a sort of awe. Emily just sort of smiled at him feebly.

"Well, it was nice to meet you two." She said.

"Yeah." John answered awkwardly "I'm sure we'll see you around."

* * *

John carried Hamish all the way back to their flat. By the time he stumbled through the doorway, he felt like his arms could have fallen off. But, he gently deposited Hamish on the couch. Sherlock was still in the exact same position as they had left him-hunched over his microscope at the kitchen table. However, when John and Hamish came in, his attention turned to them momentarily.

"What happened?" He sighed. Hamish quickly wiped his eyes on the back of his hand to hide his tears.

"Hamish fell down at the park." John called back, already halfway to the bathroom to grab the medical kit.

"I'm okay." Hamish insisted to his father, attempting to cover up his sniffles. John opened the white cabinet in the bathroom and pulled out his small medical kit. He tucked it under his arm and headed back to Hamish. The boy was sitting on the couch with one leg extended. Sherlock held it in front of himself carefully, peering at it questioningly. John scoffed and knelt down beside him, opening his little white box. He pulled out a cotton swab and doused it in disinfectant.

"This might sting a bit." He warned his son before he touched the open wound. "Be brave." Hamish winced when the the material came in contact with him.

"Ouch." He gripped tightly at the pillow beside him as John began to swab his wound, cleaning out the dirt and grime from the park. But he was efficient at his task, and was quickly wrapping Hamish's leg in a thick piece of white gauze.

"There." He smiled. "Sherlock, can you hand me another cotton swab?" Kneeling beside him, Sherlock placed the soft cotton into John's outstretched palm, and John moved on to Hamish's next knee. When he was finished cleaning, he bandaged it up very carefully.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" He smiled at Hamish and stood up, brushing his hands together. Hamish nodded. John kissed the top of his head. "I'll make some tea then, shall I?"


End file.
